My husband, Nolan, and I had spent almost our entire marriage trying to become parents.
Over ten years, I was pregnant seven times.
Six ended before we ever got to bring a baby home.
After a while, we stopped telling people when a pregnancy test came back positive.
The congratulations became too painful when we had to explain a few weeks later that there was no baby anymore.
So when I found out I was pregnant again at thirty-nine, Nolan and I made a quiet agreement.
This would be our last attempt.
We didn’t say it dramatically.
There was no big conversation at the kitchen table.
We simply knew that neither of us had much left to give.
For the first twelve weeks, I barely allowed myself to look at the ultrasound pictures.
At twenty weeks, my sister offered to throw me a baby shower.
I said no.
At twenty-eight weeks, my mother asked whether we’d bought a crib.
I lied and told her we were waiting.
